


A Little Less 'As you wish', A Little More 'I know'.

by kinetikatrue



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossdressing, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinetikatrue/pseuds/kinetikatrue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>57. Frank/Gerard - Gerard wakes up the morning after a night on the town alone, but with hickeys on his neck and a photobooth picture in his back pocket of him kissing a dark-haired, tattooed stranger. (There's also minor Mikey/Alicia.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Less 'As you wish', A Little More 'I know'.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theopteryx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theopteryx/gifts).



> Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) and [](http://jrho.livejournal.com/profile)[**jrho**](http://jrho.livejournal.com/) for running this shindig this year and not killing me for tardiness; to [](http://sansets.livejournal.com/profile)[**sansets**](http://sansets.livejournal.com/) for always being up for contemplating my theoretical questions; to [](http://shihadchick.livejournal.com/profile)[**shihadchick**](http://shihadchick.livejournal.com/) and [](http://coyotegestalt.livejournal.com/profile)[**coyotegestalt**](http://coyotegestalt.livejournal.com/) for telling me that it wasn't all complete shit; and to [](http://cincodemaygirl.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://cincodemaygirl.livejournal.com/)**cincodemaygirl** for believing in me. Any inaccuracies related to Star Wars are my own damn fault. I have no idea what you were hoping for, dear prompter, but I hope this doesn't fly too wide of the mark!

When Gerard first opens his eyes there's one long, terrifying moment where he thinks he's gone blind, that maybe all those old wives' tales about what jerking off will lead to have actually decided to magically be true, or something - he doesn't even fucking know. But even while he's working up to freaking out completely fucking spectacularly - how the fuck will he _draw_ if he can't see the page? - there's a rational little voice in his head wondering why the fuck that would happen _now_. He's spent the last couple days at a con and barely had time to do all the things he wanted to do there, much less fit in regular life stuff like sleeping and eating and jerking off.

It seems to Gerard that going blind from jerking off would be a much more fitting punishment if it happened just after you'd stroked out a good one - eyes rolling back in your fucking head good - and were laying there totally blissed out and covered in your own fucking come and thinking about having a really good smoke. And then when you'd finally worked up the energy to even open your eyes, BOOM, you couldn't see shit, not even the pack of smokes sitting on your bedside table you'd been about to have a go at summoning with the power of your mind. You'd _know_ , then.

Gerard's incipient epic freak-out never goes anywhere, though. It gets completely fucking derailed because, well, his nose itches. And since he doesn't actually have tactile telekinesis he has to fucking reach up to scratch it - which he does, since he can still fucking find his nose even if he can't fucking see it. At which point his hand hits hair. Or a hair-like substance. His brain helpfully hops trains of thought to pipe up with _wig_! Which is actually totally fucking logical, since, like, if his wig had shifted while he was asleep and now it was hanging down over his forehead and covering his eyes and nose, well, that would explain his not being able to fucking see.

Let it be known: Gerard is _completely_ on board with having suffered temporary blindness due to Princess Leia wig.

Particularly since temporary blindness due to wig seems to be the least of his problems at the moment. Lifting his arm to scratch his nose had hurt - and bringing his other one up to help maneuver the wig back into place hadn't been any less painful. And while he may not be entirely sober, yet, the chorus of stiff and aching body parts is getting through loud and clear. None of them appreciate his current choice of bed. And his bladder isn't any happier. Wherever here is, he's got a choice of getting it together and leaving soon or pissing himself. And he's not _that_ drunk.

It's pretty dark, cave-like, even - but he can see well enough to tell that he's lying on industrial carpet. And that a couple feet overhead is what seems to be the underside of a folding table. Which probably means that those are folds of black tablecloth hanging down all around him. And that he's probably still in the hotel, in one of the rooms the convention rented for events. That's practically normal when it comes to places Gerard has unexpectedly woken up in.

Sitting up works out okay, even though he has to move extra carefully in order to avoid bumping his head on the underside of the table. Gerard _is_ mostly capable of that much coordination, though, even while still slightly sloshed. It's only when he tries to roll onto his knees and crawl out into the room that things go awry. And, okay, maybe he does attempt that bit with a bit more reckless abandon than he'd applied to sitting up. But that still shouldn't have resulted in him almost immediately finding himself being jerked to a stop. Sure, it's the logical outcome when one of your legs has been tied to one of the table-legs by the belt to your costume. Which is what further investigation reveals to have happened. But the point is that he shouldn't have had to anticipate being incapacitated by a strip of off-white poly-blend knit.

Seriously, what the hell? Gerard will admit to being a twitchy fuck a fair bit of the time, but, still - who the fuck would want to tie him to a table-leg? The end of the belt looped around his leg does seem to be knotted mostly for show - it comes apart pretty easily when Gerard tugs at its loose end, so maybe it wasn't malicious. But it's pretty fucking weird all the same. Particularly since Gerard can't remember it happening. He can't remember how he got to the room in the first place, even. And while Gerard's used to losing time sometimes when he gets drunk it's creepier than usual this time. And no question Gerard's totally all about the creepy shit, but right now he just wants to make with the detaching his belt from the table-leg and getting the fuck out of there.

Nobody stops him. There's no-one to try. The only things in the room besides Gerard are a scattering of tables and chairs - which maybe means it's not one of the rooms the convention had reserved, after all. But Gerard does not even care. What he wants is a bathroom. And a smoke. And some coffee. Probably in about that order. He's going to get them, too - there's nobody standing guard outside the door when he pushes out into the hallway, nobody walking by, no windows. It could be late or early and Gerard would never know. But whatever time it is, he doesn't care enough to dig out his phone and find out. There's always coffee.

But first there are bathrooms - not too far away, even. They pose a question Gerard doesn't have an immediately obvious answer to, though: which one should he use? It hadn't come up the day before - he'd used the bath attached to his room without thinking about it. But now he has to choose - and in the end he says fuck it and uses the Men's; he's got a dick, after all, and he's at a con. If fen can't deal with a guy in drag that's their problem.

In the end, it's not even an issue; Gerard has the bathroom and all its facilities to himself. Pissing feels fantastic - and when he stands at the sink to wash his hands, after, he doesn't really think about anything, just hums a little to himself and lets the water flow. His reflection's right there, though, and Gerard stares at himself out of habit. His eyeliner isn't too smudged, but - he looks again. No, he isn't hallucinating - there's totally a string of hickeys on his neck, just peeking out of his collar.

What _had_ he gotten up to the night before?

A little wandering nets him a side door that leads out to a parking lot. There isn't anywhere really to sit, but Gerard doesn't mind. He hikes up his tunic-robe, takes over a stretch of curb and empties the contents of his belt pouch out onto it; digging through the pouch just seems too complicated. That produces the expected things: his cellphone (dead) and flask (empty), keycard and badge, ID and a wad of cash, plus a notebook and a pen, - and, eventually, his cigarettes and lighter. But that's not all. There're a couple unexpected pieces of paper - a receipt for an art show purchase Gerard doesn't remember making (though it's for less than $100, so there probably hasn't been a repeat of the life-sized Wookies celebrating Life Day incident), a handful of raffle tickets and half a strip of photobooth pictures.

The receipt and raffle tickets aren't exactly surprising; there's a reason Gerard only carries cash when he's going to be wandering a con without Mikey, and particularly if he thinks he might get drunk. His already poor impulse control really doesn't need any aiding or abetting. But the photobooth pictures are pretty unprecedented. They're of Gerard and a dark-haired, tattooed guy. A dark-haired, tattooed _stranger_ , even. Kissing. And Gerard's not exactly _shy_ , but he's never particularly felt a need to document his hook-ups quite that concretely. He _likes_ that hickeys and finger-bruises are ephemeral.

Of course, Gerard is in costume in the picture - and the dark-haired guy is wearing an open-collared, off-white shirt with a dark vest over it, so the kiss might not be about who _they_ are but who they're dressed as. Even though Leia and Han never kissed while wearing that particular combination of costumes. And that's not even considering the hickeys. Or how Gerard and the guy practically fucking shine with happiness. That series of thoughts does jar loose what might be a fragment of memory, though. He can almost hear himself protesting, "Han Solo didn't have tattoos!" and some guy retorting, "Have _you_ seen him naked? And, anyway, he should have!"

The words don't come with visuals, so Gerard can't say for sure whether the guy in the picture was the one defending the possibility of a tattooed Han. Or whether it's really a memory at all. Logic suggests that if it is, then the guy being involved is pretty likely, of course, but Gerard still can't be _sure_. Though, now that the thought's occurred to him, Gerard can't disagree. If Han Solo as written didn't have tattoos, he fucking well should have.

It's bright out, the sort of early that Gerard pretty much never sees from the having just woken up to it end of things - and he really fucking wishes his sunglasses weren't up in his room. But he's got his cigarettes, at least - and thoughts of a tattooed Han Solo, possibly even his own. He'll deal with being on the side of the light.

***

Gerard's keycard doesn't work to let him back in the door he came out, so he ends up having to walk around the hotel to the front entrance. He spends the walk building up a really fucking epic rant about technology and the sun and the evils thereof. But he does a complete 180 on the subject when he walks through the sliding doors of the entrance and is reminded of what's just off the lobby: a coffee kiosk, whose line is presently only a few people long.

What's more, that line is mostly people in costume. The couple at the front are dressed as high elves - and if these are their Sunday hall costumes, Gerard can't even imagine what they pulled out for Friday and Saturday. From a distance, at least, the workmanship that went into their outfits looks stunning. Behind them, there's a guy in jeans and a black t-shirt. And, after that, there's a person dressed as some sort of anime character, probably a military one of some sort, though Gerard isn't willing to hazard a guess at the gender of the character or the person wearing the costume. His rumpled Leia costume fits right in, though it looks even more the work of an amateur after a night of being slept in.

When it's Gerard's turn to order, the girl behind the counter just asks him what he wants, rings up his large black coffee, takes his money, pours his steaming cup-ful, hands it over, and wishes him a good day. She doesn't comment on his costume or stumble over what to call him - but, then, she'd served the rest of the people in line before Gerard without issue and she's probably worked at least one other shift that weekend, so making assumptions about people dressed as Princess Leia has probably been trained out of her. And he's probably not even the most impressive Princess Leia she's seen.

Gerard doctors his coffee with artificial sweetener and creamer from the condiments bar, same as he always does, then heads off for the art show, fortified by sweet, sweet caffeine. When he gets there, things aren't exactly hopping, not surprising since it's still pretty early for a Sunday morning - but one half of the double door is open and there's a sign on the other one announcing that yes, it is okay to pick your purchases up now, so Gerard wanders in. He has no idea what he's here to take ownership of, but he has hopes of it being cool. Even drunk him tends to have an eye for awesome stuff. The Life Day painting notwithstanding (and even that was just embarrassing, not intrinsically bad art).

The line to pick up art is pretty short, but Gerard wouldn't have minded if it were longer. He has caffeine, after all. Not that he minds only having to wait for another two or three other people to claim their purchases from the girl behind the table. Just, hypothetically. He would have been chill. If the situation had called for it. But it doesn't. And he's chill, anyway. Cool as a motherfucking cucumber.

Even though he really can't wait to find out what his receipt is for.

That doesn't mean Gerard doesn't have to go digging for said receipt when his turn actually comes. He says, apologetic, "I always think I'll be ready when I get up to the counter, but it never happens. At least I can order coffee on autopilot?"

The girl staffing the table says, sympathetic, "And it's early, or-" she continues after considering the size of his coffee and the state of his costume, "late?"

Gerard considers, says, "Kind of both? I never get up this early - and I'm not actually sure how much sleep I got last night." And then his belt pouch finally gives up his receipt and he can hand it over and say, "And that would be why I'm glad to not have to carry a purse most of the time."

She agrees, "That sucks," and, "Backpacks all the way, for sure." She doesn't give any indication of whether she thinks Gerard is female or male or what, just turns to retrieve Gerard's purchase like what he's wearing and what's in his pants doesn't matter in the slightest to her. And maybe it really doesn't. It certainly shouldn't have any bearing on whether or not he's a person who wants to buy fucking awesome art.

Most of the art is in bins full of dividers on a table against the wall, though there are a few pieces too large (or three-dimensional) for the bins sitting out on the table or the floor. To Gerard's relief, the girl goes to one of the bins, flicks through the stuff at one end of it and pulls out a single matted piece.

She grins and says, "That's pretty awesome," as she puts it down on the table in front of him.

And she's right. It's a photograph of a Star Wars LEGO diorama. Two photos, actually, one of a LEGO Millennium Falcon pulling evasive maneuvers to get away from some TIE fighters - and a second showing a cut-away to the interior of the Falcon, with Chewie and Leia at the controls and Han and Luke in the gun turrets. They come as a set, matted side-by-side - and they're wicked fucking cool, in Gerard's opinion. He hasn't seen anything like them in this con's art show before. And when he flips the whole assemblage over to check for the standard business card attached to the back and find out whose work he's become enchanted with, he discovers a far less standard note.

_G.- Hope you think this is as awesome in the morning as you did last night. xo -Frank_

Frank's words are a bit impudent - and maybe a bit flirtatious? Gerard can't quite decide. He has no idea who Frank is or what went down when he was looking at art the night before. He literally hasn't a single clue besides the note. And that's ...ambiguous.

It's also covering the business card Gerard was originally looking for. But it's only a post-it, so all Gerard has to do to get a peek at Frank's contact info is lift up the bottom edge and peer beneath. Frank apparently isn't interested in giving much away though - the card advertises Pansy-Ass Photography in bold black letters against a hot pink background, but otherwise only lists a website address. If Gerard wants to know more about the person who made this piece of art, he's clearly going to have to do a bit of detective work. Just what he needs on top of trying to track down an errant Han Solo. They've both got him intrigued, though, so he guesses he'll do what he has to do. He can't help but hope that if he finds one or both of them he'll remember the previous evening. He certainly wishes he did, already

Right now, though, he guesses he should turn his attention to the matter at hand. The girl behind the table would clearly like him to focus on it. She asks, "Uh, do you want that wrapped?"

And the photograph's not in a plastic sleeve or anything, just sitting out there exposed to anything and everything that might come along, so Gerard says, "Sure. Thanks."

So the girl wraps it up in a kind of brown paper envelope and Gerard says, "Thanks. Again, uh -?"

And she lifts up her nametag and says, "I'm Alicia. And, seriously, no problemo."

The caffeine _clearly_ hasn't kicked in yet. Gerard figures the better part of valor is just taking his art and getting out of there. He smiles at Alicia one more time - a little lopsidedly this time - and vamooses.

His next stop is the information desk the con has set up in the atrium, in hopes they can tell him what he should do about his handful of raffle tickets. He definitely isn't expecting to have his enquiry met with ah, "Oh, we had the drawing at the dance last night - what numbers do you have? Winners only have until noon to make their claims!"

Even after that, Gerard isn't really expecting anything. He extracts his badge and the strip of tickets he apparently bought and hands them over to the energetic middle-aged woman holding down the info desk and waits for her to do whatever it is she needs to do with them. Which is apparently to determine what the beginning and ending numbers are and then check those against a neatly typed list. And then declare, "Well, aren't you lucky - you won the Star Wars theme pack!" and turn away to retrieve it. Which, seriously - awesome art _and_ raffle prizes? That's the sort of thing that never happens to him. Though he also usually doesn't live a life involving quite so much mystery. Maybe it all balances out?

The Star Wars theme pack turns out to be a huge basket filled with all kinds of cool shit, so much that Gerard can't quite take it all in. Not that that really matters. For now, all he has to do is get it back to his room; he can figure out what exactly he now owns when his brain's capable of functioning at a slightly higher level.

Mikey's still making like a lump of bedclothes when Gerard edges his way through the door cradling the basket, so Gerard just puts it down on the dresser, flops onto his bed and gets on with staring up at the ceiling. He really does not know what to do with the current state of his life. He's not the sort of person who ends up involved with not just one, but two, mystery men. One or more of whom might think he's a girl. That's a plot ripped directly from a really ridiculous romance novel. Or the reverse of it is, anyway. Last Gerard checked, mainstream romance publishers didn't go in for publishing novels where guys get involved with guys disguised as girls. Though there's no question in his mind that they totally should - equal opportunity and all.

Gerard just wants to get involved with a guy - and not in any complicated way. He wants a relationship with a guy who wants to share his life. Ever since he first saw the photobooth pictures that morning, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about how happy he looked in them. And how happy his Han Solo had looked in return. It really sucks that he can't remember being that happy. He guesses what he really wants is a do-over.

Gerard's still laying there, alone with his thoughts, staring off into space, when Mikey says, out of the blue, "Somebody had a good night." Because Mikey can be counted on to notice things like serial hickeys. Even with his glasses off, from halfway across the room. Seriously, he's got make-out-dar.

Gerard says, uncertain, "I guess? I mean, I hope so - but I don't remember. Seriously, it was fuckin' weird, Mikes. I fell asleep under a table and woke up tied to one of its legs with my belt. Not tightly or anything - maybe just symbolically? And no idea how I got there or what happened before that."

Mikey hmms, sympathetic and maybe a bit concerned, and just up and comes out with, "Like somebody wanted to play Leia chained up in the Death Star with you or something?"

And Gerard pauses, thinks about it, says, "Huh, yeah." because that's actually fucking plausible. The underside of the table would have made a passable makeshift cell - and if his 'captor' had counted on Gerard being willing to stay put until 'rescue' arrived, then, well, they surely wouldn't have needed to tie him up any more thoroughly than they had. The only question then was: why _hadn't_ 'rescue' ever arrived?

He maybe says the last part aloud, or maybe Mikey is just that awesome a younger brother, because he suggests, "Maybe whoever was supposed to 'rescue' you didn't know where to find you?"

And that makes Gerard frown, because he'd been thinking that his 'captor' and the 'rescue party' were probably the same person - and if there's another person to account for in the mix, then, well, that completely changes things. He says, "So you think we're talking about a Luke _and_ a Darth Vader?"

Mikey shrugs and says, "Or maybe a Han."

Gerard really hopes there was a Han, that there was his Han. He doesn't say so , though. Mikey's off and running, totally occupied with theorizing - and he drags Gerard along with him so thoroughly they nearly miss check-out. They get so engrossed that Gerard even forgets to tell Mikey about his awesome new stuff until they're getting their things together, and by then they're in so much of a hurry they can't actually spare the time it would take to get it unwrapped and rewrapped, so Gerard just flails a bit about it and promises, "Later."

And Mikey nods, unconcerned - Gerard always wants to share whenever he discovers something he thinks is fucking awesome.

***

Gerard spends the rest of the day not doing much. Once Mikey drops him home, he mainly alternates between vegging out on the couch with his laptop, half-watching a Sci-Fi original movie and getting up to take smoke breaks. But just before he gives up on the day and goes to bed, he has a brainstorm: he should post a notice to Craigslist, a Missed Connection. He's never done anything like it before, so it takes a bit of typing and deleting and typing and deleting before he has something he thinks covers the basics. But fifteen minutes later he's produced:

  
**Space Princess Seeks Wayward Space Pirate**

_Would you argue that Han Solo should have had tattoos? Did you attend JerCon this year? Do you hold the missing half to my torn strip of photobooth pictures? Are you looking for your Leia? If you can truthfully answer yes to all of these questions, please respond to this message with a detail of our evening together only you could know._  


It's totally a gamble, since most of what Gerard knows about that evening comes courtesy of his ability to put the pieces together and he isn't entirely sure he won't get reported for posting the same thing to both w4m and m4m. But, well, he can't think how else he's meant to track down a hot tattooed guy in a Han Solo costume who might or might not know Gerard's also a guy. Though boy does Gerard hope he does - and that he'll still want Gerard if and when they finally meet again.

Dreaming certainly won't get him anything but more laundry to do. Eventually. But Gerard intends to dream fucking huge, anyway. Ha.

Anybody who replies right away definitely doesn't get an equally prompt response from Gerard. He's had to force himself to make a habit of only checking his personal email in the evening because otherwise he'd do nothing but write email to Mikey all day. And he can't actually afford to do that. He _had_ planned on a relatively quiet week, post-con, but any chance of that goes right out the window mid-afternoon Monday. The project which had eaten most of the previous three months turns out to be a little less dead and buried than Gerard had thought. He doesn't check his email Monday night. Or Tuesday.

Wednesday, Mikey comes over, the way he always does when Gerard forgets to communicate for a couple days. Once he's drunk a bunch of Gerard's coffee and confirmed that Gerard is alive and hasn't forgotten his cell phone exists, he blows back out again, taking Frank's picture with him to get it framed. He's done that with enough of Gerard's art show purchases by now to have it down to, well, an art-form.

Gerard gets a text from him later: _Alicia says she wishes she'd known you were one of her boss's customers. She would've taken the pic in for you. I get a date, tho. 8)_

Which is just typical Mikey. Once he'd gotten a date at the emergency room. Gerard does not even know. Except that he really does have an awesome younger brother. And clearly everybody should realize that.

After Mikey's interruptions, the week settles back into endless rounds of soul-crushing work, fixing problems Gerard thought he'd already fixed and tracking down answers to the sort of logistical questions he hates. He's really looking forward to the day when he can hire somebody to do all the parts of this business stuff he's _terrible_ at. His life will be _amazing_ then.

He basically divides his time between working (too much), eating (badly), sleeping (not enough) and smoking (like a chimney). And having occasional (or more than occasional) wistful thoughts concerning his mystery men. Friday afternoon he somehow manages to get everything fucking nailed down again. And then he calls for pizza, drowns his troubles in vodka and pepperoni and falls into bed to sleep like the dead. So when he finally sits down with his second mug of coffee and laptop and logs into his personal email account Saturday morning he finds it flooded with responses to his Craigslist post.

Gerard starts off relatively optimistic about things, but after reading his way through a dozen responses riddled with fucking lame innuendo and worse spelling, he begins to think his Craigslist plan might be doomed. He definitely can't take reading any more right now. He still wants to fucking find his Han Solo, but there has to be a better way to go about it than wading through endless rounds of this shit.

Tracking down more of Frank's shit and staring at it like a creeper sounds like not only a better option, but a fucking fantastic one at the moment. Possibly there will even be a picture of Frank. And, who knows - maybe that will jog Gerard's memory (though nothing else has so far). But for that he needs Frank's business card. Frank's very pink business card ...which went with Frank's photograph when Mikey took it to get framed. Googling Frank Pansy Photos New Jersey gets him the Pansy-AssPhotos.com site in one, though. And after that he can get down to clicking happily away. Which he's about to do - there are galleries and galleries of Frank's work for him to roll around in - when he thinks to check the contact page.

That actually has a phone number. And while Gerard doesn't want to call right away, since he hasn't had time to figure out what he wants to say, he still finds the idea of having Frank's phone number saved in his phone, just waiting to be used, comforting, somehow. So he types it in - and then his phone spits up the message 'NUMBER ALREADY EXISTS IN ANOTHER ENTRY'. It's listed under Hans.

All Gerard can think for a second is that he doesn't know anyone named Hans. Because he doesn't. It's the sort of name you remember for sure. And then he thinks: what if I met one while I was drunk and got his number and just didn't remember it? After all, he'd been drunk when he met the hot Han Solo guy and he can't remember his name. And then a whole series of things suddenly fall into place and Gerard just knows, okay? He really doesn't know anybody named Hans; that was a drunk typo; Hans should actually be Han S; which is, of course, short for Han Solo; Han Solo's number is Frank's number; so, of course his errant Han Solo has to be Frank.

Fuck.

That's fucking big. Gerard's mystery guys aren't so much of a mystery. They're just one guy. And Gerard could have contacted him all along. He's not sure if he should call, though. He's already left it a week - maybe an email would be better? Just to start. And starting that way should be easy. A little embarrassing, sure, but Gerard can deal with embarrassing. And his email's still open from his abortive attempt at reading the responses to his Craigslist posts.

Gerard's about to click the compose button when the address in the sender field of one of those Craigslist responses catches his eye. He doesn't know why he didn't notice it before; Pansy-AssPhotos.com is a pretty eye-catching domain name, after all. Besides which, it belongs to Frank. And Gerard's gotten pretty attuned to all things Frank recently. When he's had time to be, anyway. Clicking on the email to open it still requires a moment of bracing himself beforehand, though - the subject-line gives nothing away and, while all signs had pointed to Frank definitely being interested in hearing from him again, it's been a week. Frank could have changed his mind easy. But curiosity overcomes much when it comes to Gerard - and after only a moment of steeling himself to take whatever Frank might have to say he clicks and finds himself faced with a wall of text -

_From: f@pansy-assphotos.com  
Subject: RE: Space Princess Seeks Wayward Space Pirate_

_Thank fuck for my Craigslist addiction. Mostly it keeps me from going insane in completely mundane, stress-relieving kinds of ways. This week it may have kept me from going completely round the twist out of frustrated passion. So, if this isn't G, I'm going to be really fucking disappointed._

_To answer your questions: yes, I would fucking well argue that Han Solo should have had tattoos. Yes, I was at JerCon. Yes, I do have half a strip of photobooth pictures taken that weekend. And, yes, I have spent a whole fucking lot of time over the past week trying to figure out how to find my Leia._

_You want a detail only I could know about that evening? I'll tell you the entire fucking story. We met at the art show's closing reception. You'd been pre-gaming - and kept sneaking sips of something out of a flask. You really weren't very stealthy. The first thing you said to me was that I made a bad Han Solo because Han Solo didn't have tattoos. I couldn't let that statement lie, of course, so I started arguing with you about it. In the end, I think I got you to change your mind. You kept petting my ink, anyway. And you were really into my photographs, so everything would have been forgiven even if you hadn't had a change of heart._

_You loved those photographs so fucking much you insisted on buying one immediately. I wouldn't have made you pay if you hadn't wanted to. Even then I was already pretty fucking gone._

_When the reception ended, we left together. We wandered around the hotel, talking about all kinds of random shit - though the conversation always came back to Star Wars eventually. When we ran across the photobooth we argued about which of Han and Leia's kisses to re-enact. So we re-enacted all of them because we couldn't choose, even though our costumes made all of them inaccurate. You insisted that we had to do them in the right fucking order. Even though that would mean that when we split up the pictures we'd each only get one of our favorites. You couldn't stop smiling at me - and all I wanted to do was smile back. So I did._

_After that, you got seriously excited about playing Star Wars. You really wanted to play out the scene where Han and Luke break Leia out of her cell on the Death Star. But you wouldn't tell me where your 'cell' was going to be. You said that finding it had to actually be a challenge for me if we wanted to do it right. I agreed, in the end - I probably would have done anything you asked - and I've spent this entire week wishing I hadn't._

_The last time I saw you was right before I closed my eyes so I wouldn't know what route you took when you left the atrium. I've been wondering ever since what might have happened if I **had** figured out where you went. Whether we were going somewhere. What you might have won off all those raffle tickets you bought. What further adventures we might have had as a result of your winnings._

_If this **is** G, well, you don't have to worry. If I hadn't been aware that you were a guy dressing as a girl, the way you posted this to Craigslist would have cleared things up for me. But I knew pretty much from the start. It was possibly the first thing I thought was awesome about you (the list has grown pretty long since then). It's definitely one of the things that makes me think that having more adventures with you would be fucking amazing. So, please, please, please say you will, motherfucker?_

_xoxo_

_Frank_

_P.S. - I'm not saying this is definitely love. I mean, I've only spent one evening in your company, so there's no way I could know anything like that for sure. What I am saying is that I'm committed to finding out what this is and what it could be. And I hope that you feel the same. Don't leave me hanging, here, asshole._

Gerard's not sure whether he actually remembers any of that - besides the tiny fragment of conversation he got back the previous Sunday - or whether he's just done a spectacularly good job of taking his memories of all the places Frank talked about and visualizing doing the things Frank listed in them. Because, the thing is, he can imagine all of it pretty clearly. Maybe not up to filling in Frank's ends of conversations, though Gerard certainly wants to be able to imagine that in detail. Because he knows how they'd go from experience. Because he actually knows Frank.

He thinks all this in moments - and then he's clicking the reply button and typing a one-word, all-caps answer -

_To: f@pansy-assphotos.com  
Subject: Re: RE: Space Princess Seeks Wayward Space Pirate_

_YES_

\- and hitting send.

He starts having second thoughts as soon as his computer starts displaying the 'sending' message. By the time his reply has gone through, he's absolutely sure that he should have said more. That his caps-lock may have been about as affirmative as he could get without bringing in ridiculously sized fonts and sparkle-text and the marquee tag, but he should have actually explained that he was saying YES to everything. Frank's message is just sitting there, so hitting reply again, well, Gerard doesn't really stop to think about it. He just starts typing -

 _To: f@pansy-assphotos.com_  
Subject: Re: RE: Space Princess Seeks Wayward Space Pirate

I mean: YES, this is Gee. YES, I did win stuff off my shit-ton of raffle tickets (and, YES, I want to share it with you). YES, I want to have more adventures with you. And, YES, I really do fucking hope we're going somewhere. Is that enough YESes for you, motherfucker?

I don't actually remember most of that evening - but everything I've seen and everything you've said makes me wish I did. And want to find out what spending more time with you might be like. So: I'm really not saying this is love, either, but I definitely want to find out whether it could be. I sincerely fucking hope you still feel the same.

\- looks it over once, and hits send again. If that isn't good enough, probably nothing will be. There's nothing for it now but for him to shut down his email and go have a smoke and get on with his day. And keep hoping. He'll probably never stop doing that.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] A Little Less 'As you wish', A Little More 'I know'., by kinetikatrue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036848) by [TheOneCalledEli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneCalledEli/pseuds/TheOneCalledEli)




End file.
